Butterfly Fly Away
by TheLastofUs
Summary: 9/11 Tribute. Alfred had planned this day for months, and it was finally time to execute his plan. Standing at the top of the tower, he looked down at the street, imagining how he'd look on it in a few moments. And on the day of September 11th, 2001, he jumped.


_Author's note at the top because I'd like you to know something BEFORE you read:_

_First things first, I'd like to say that I mean no disrespect in case this comes out that way. It was just a little thing I thought of... So don't take offense to anything. I think this day was tragic and I'd like to acknowledge it with a fanfiction._

_RIP Everyone who was silenced that day._

* * *

**_Butterfly Fly Away_**

* * *

_ It's okay… It's not _that_ high up. You're not scared. You've _planned_ this! September 11__th__, 2001. An exact year after your brother… Don't you want to see him again?_

Alfred peered over the side of the building—the tallest in America, or was it the world? He couldn't remember. The people on the ground looked like ants shrinking by the second until they were mere smudges in his vision. He wondered if he was one in theirs.

The wind rustled around him throwing his hair over his face in hindrance. His glasses slid down his nose a bit before it was jammed back into place by his middle finger. The breeze got stronger and pushed him backwards, though it always was strong this high up.

And in the last moments, he pushed forward with a sudden moment of determination afraid if he didn't jump now, he'd talk himself out of it. But it was significant he did it today. He had to do it today.

And so he felt as if he was flying—like dark chocolate and strawberry cream. Bittersweet and topped with something light and fluffy. He felt his stomach sink like a rock and the air sliced at his arms and legs like knives. His bomber jacket he'd always worn almost slipped off his shoulders and got lost into the clouds, but he held onto it. After all a huge splatter of red and muck on the street wouldn't be recognizable. Maybe they'd know the identity of the suicide jumper by his signature jacket.

Pain skyrocketed through his body and sent electricity through his fingertips, though it was a lot sooner than he'd anticipated—and he felt his lungs and heart beating.

_What the… _

He felt the wind rushing through him east now and he nearly tumbled sideways. He found himself on the top of… some type of—

_CRASH_

He hardly acknowledged he had landed on the top of a plane before he crashed through a glass window and found himself in a heap of scrap metal. Screams filled the humid air and fires occupied the empty space. Alfred couldn't move, nor did he want to. This is how he was to die, he just didn't understand what was happening.

Where was he? Did he reach the street on the ground already? Why were people screaming? Why could he hear them? Why could he still breathe?

People were shrieking hysterically and running amuck the room and sparks turned to flames to smoke and coughs. There were things thrown and doors were slammed. Windows were smashed and more screams surfaced.

All this from a petty suicide attempt?

There was another enormous crash and bang followed by an explosion not too far away, upping the hysteria by the millionth ton. Crying and tears were all too familiar to many in the room, but Alfred's limp body lay bruised and bloodied, filled with shards of broken glass and tainted with blood and ash. He didn't bother moving.

The hot, quickened breathing had lessened as more crashes of glass and a resounding scream that vanished had become reoccurring and Alfred assumed people had started to jump as well. He just couldn't understand… What was _happening_? For months he'd planned on today to commit suicide, and now he's (barely) alive on top of some… was it a plane? Metal? While people jumped instead.

As if they were mocking him

"_I can jump, you can't_," they laughed.

Doors were blown and fire consumed wood and heated metal. New people entered the room now, yelling out and asking if anyone was in the room. Alfred hadn't the strength to respond, and honestly, even if he did, he didn't know if he would have.

Matthew had been killed in a car accident exactly a year ago, and Alfred felt I was only fair he joined him. They were two of the same. They were halves and without the other, where was he? He was lost.

He felt his body moving, but not to his accord. _Lifted_. Two fingers were pressed to his neck and wrist and more shouts were yelled, and he found himself in the arms of a stranger, bouncing up and down as the man ran down flights of stairs.

Honestly, what the heck was going on?

* * *

"He's coming to."

"His eyes are opening."

"Alfred?"

Glossy blue eyes opened lazily and focused slowly. The room was odd. White curtains, white tiles, and other people in white. White. White. There was so much white. It was the typical heaven. Where was Mattie?

"Am I finally dead?" came the dreamy question.

An airy laugh.

"No, you're in the Emergency Room."

"Everything's so white," Alfred's voice was quiet; innocent.

"You're eyes are still adjusting, sweety," a female's voice spoke softly, "give it a minute."

And she was right. As the minute hand reached over with desperate fingers, his vision started to clear up slightly. They weren't wearing white anymore, but instead a sky-blue, and the floor was a dingy beige color. The figures were still only but a shadow, however.

"My glasses," he said simply, and the others in the room understood.

With a nod of the head, the nurse rushed out of the room. Glancing around, Alfred noticed there were many other people in the room. Most being patients, and it was obvious they moved extra cots in there to fit more people. The entire hospital was crawling with more doctors and nurses than usual.

"Yours broke during the accident, so here's a new pair," the nurse returned.

Alfred reached out blindly and swatted his hand in the direction of the offering, placing the lenses messily over the bridge of his nose.

"Accident? What accident?" Confusion bubbled through Alfred's body.

"There… Was a terrorist attack. You don't remember?"

Terrorist attack?

And he asked for clarification.

Their gazes fell to the cracks in the tiles. "Two planes crashed into the World Trade Center, and another into the Pentagon. One more crashed somewhere in Pennsylvania, and a lot of people think that it was headed for the White House. You're lucky to have survived."

Lucky? Just before that he'd tried to kill _himself_! There were better people—more _innocent_ people who deserved his life.

And yet, something ran in his head… Maybe he wasn't supposed to?

Would Mattie want him to kill himself?

…He wouldn't.

The TVs in the room were flashing images of the event on replay. He watched aghast at just what he'd been in the middle of.

"You don't need to watch that," coaxed a nearby nurse. "You should just rest."

The stiff pillow was all too inviting now and he felt sleep overpowering his consciousness. Butterflies flew down his eyelashes and kissed his eyes shut, welcoming in the new dreams of a mid-day nap.

And though two towers had fallen on that day, he found the first brick of his own tower placed in drying cement in his heart.

_"I'll try to be strong for you, Mattie, I know you wouldn't want me to do something like this."_


End file.
